By A Thread
an excerpt

Prologue

THURSDAY, MAY 13 5:38 PM

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

“Well, do you?” the Kuwaiti asked.

The impatience in his voice yanked Davis back to the moment. He’d been miles away. They’d been walking for nearly ten minutes and he’d hardly uttered a word. Al Shammari must have finally noticed he wasn’t listening.

“Sorry?”

“Do you think she’ll ever be president?” the Arab repeated. His enunciation was deliberate, as though the American didn’t understand English well.

They were crossing the Albertinaplatz, skirting the southeast arm of the Hofburg palace, the erstwhile winter home of Habsburg emperors. To their left lay the Staatsoper, Vienna’s famed 19th-century opera house.

“Who?” asked Davis.

The Kuwaiti stopped suddenly and turned to him with saucer-wide eyes of exasperation. “Anne Lipscoy!”

Davis ignored the dramatic emphasis, studiously avoiding eye contact as they continued walking. “The speaker of the house?” He was genuinely perplexed. What is he talking about?

He’d first met the Kuwaiti four weeks ago, but still wasn't sure who he was. Jassim al Shammari didn’t look like a terrorist—and he hadn’t acted like one either. Not since Davis had known him anyway.

What if that’s the problem? Davis asked himself—not for the first time. What if it’s all just an act?

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy. In fact, he liked him too much. But he was well aware that not everything was what it seemed. That was especially true of the affable, 23-year-old Kuwaiti.

Kevin “Red” Davis wasn’t sure what or who to trust any more. Instinct had proven useless, if not counterproductive. And, given the experiences of the last few weeks, even his own feelings were now suspect. They had betrayed him more than once lately.

He and al Shammari had rarely discussed politics during their brief acquaintance. Their conversations had been more personal in nature. Too personal, Kevin silently chided himself again. He had let his guard down with the enigmatic stranger. And while he could make any number of excuses, none would change the fact that his job was much harder now because of it.

Kevin had accepted this assignment for one simple reason: he was a patriot. Like others of his Mormon faith, he’d been raised to believe that the United States of America had been founded by the Almighty as an instrument in His hands.

America’s Divine Destiny was intrinsic to Kevin’s worldview. So when his country had called upon him, saying no hadn’t even been an option. Yet while his faith had made that decision a no-brainer, it wasn’t making the task at hand any more palatable.

When this had begun, Jassim’s future had been of no consequence. The Kuwaiti was still faceless then, just another “bad guy” to be dealt with. But once they’d met, that changed. Kevin realized now that his first mistake was falling for his own deception. How foolish he’d been to let the friendship—a ruse intended only to gain information from the target—become real.

Now it had entrapped him as well.

In denial, he had allowed himself to hope he could somehow avoid this moment. Some other resolution would be found. None had been, of course. Then the other shoe had dropped. Less than twenty-four hours ago he received the order to roll up the Kuwaiti.

His initial reaction was to refuse, thinking that maybe he could plead Jassim’s case to his superiors. He didn’t, of course. He instinctively knew that a single novice agent could not derail an Agency operation. He could spare neither himself nor Jassim by protesting his orders.

Nor was willful rebellion an option. At 21, he’d never even questioned authority before, let alone defied it. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.

It became quickly and painfully clear he had only two options: betray the friendship or betray his country. The first was agonizing, but the second was unthinkable. Faced with this reality, he rationalized. He wasn’t responsible for Jassim’s fate since; they were both victims of a situation beyond their control. The Agency was calling the shots. What could he do?

The words of a church hymn he had sung all his life came to mind: Do what is right, let the consequence follow….

If only it were that simple, he thought. Right, like Truth, could be relative. How can I do “what is right” when I’m not sure what that is? The church, of course, would tell him to pray about it. But he was no longer able to pray.

The only guiding principle he had left was obedience, “the first law of the Gospel.” He would do as he was told, just as he was doing now. I don’t have any choice, he told himself yet again. The internal dialogue was familiar now. It had been looping for the last 19 hours.

The problem was that he no longer believed his own excuses now, if indeed he ever had. His conscience continued to whisper that choices were always possible, even if there were penalties attached to some of them. Just because others were giving the orders, it didn’t absolve him of responsibility for the outcome. He was always free to disobey.

Was it cowardly to obey blindly? What if the CIA was wrong? What if Jassim was innocent? It would be unethical to aid in his capture, wouldn’t it? “Enemy combatants” were rumored to be kidnapped and tortured at “black” CIA prisons hidden away somewhere in Eastern Europe. “Extraordinary rendition,” they called it. Kevin shuddered at the thought of his friend enduring such horrors.

But then, if the Agency was right, and Jassim was a dangerous terrorist, how many innocent people might suffer if Kevin didn’t help bring him down now? He had an ethical obligation to do so. In fact, under the Patriot Act, it would be criminal to refuse. “Giving aid and comfort to the enemy” could earn him a trip to one of the same secret prisons. He would not be given a chance to argue his own innocence, let alone his friend’s.

That, he concluded, was a greater risk than he was willing to take. So, as painful as it was, he would do what he had to do. Now he just wanted it to be over with as quickly as possible.

“She’s third in line, right?” Jassim asked rhetorically, doggedly pursuing whatever argument he was making.

Still clueless, Kevin punted. “What’s your point?”

Jassim sighed loudly. “I mean,” he said pedantically, “that if both the president and vice president were to die, Lipscoy would become president.”

The statement hit Kevin like a ton of bricks. His heart stuttered and his mouth went dry. Jassim had his full attention now.

The declaration was hardly a death threat, Kevin tried to tell himself. It was a mere paraphrase the 25th Amendment—obvious to anyone who’d read the Constitution. Then again, the death of a president was no joking matter. And on the lips of a terror suspect, the observation could not be considered casual.

Kevin once again had to confront the question he had tried so far failed to answer: Is Jassim a terrorist?

Ignoring his racing pulse, he struggled to project nonchalance. “Yeah? So?” he said, feigning indifference. Inexorable beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, threatening to betray his stratagem. He gave his face a quick, awkward wipe of his sleeve. Elsewhere, perspiration trickled unabated beneath his clothing.

“She’d be the first female president,” Jassim said matter-of-factly. If he’d noticed Kevin’s distress, he wasn’t letting on. “Do you approve of a woman as your president?”

“I guess so. I haven’t really thought about it.” Kevin tried to sound disinterested. Why had Jassim brought up politics all of sudden? That wasn’t like him.

They were passing through the Burggarten now. Kevin was leading the way. Shunning the paved path, which ran circuitously through the park, he made a beeline across a grassy expanse toward the Ring. He wanted this to be over with.

“I’m sure there’ll be a woman in the White House someday,” he said, hoping to retire the subject with the breezy remark. “I don’t see why it couldn’t be Lipscoy.”

“Ah, so you’re a Democrat then?” persisted Jassim, either oblivious to or disregarding Kevin’s detachment.

Kevin trudged ahead, saying nothing. They had reached the six rush-hour-clogged lanes of the Ringstraße—the grand boulevard that had replaced the ancient ramparts of the city in the 19th century.

As they waited for the green light, Kevin weighed Jassim’s question, wondering about the subtext. Jassim’s tone had been playful, as it always was when he played devil’s advocate. But does he have a more sinister intent? Is he trying to probe my allegiance to the current Republican administration? Is he seeking a coconspirator?

Be careful how you respond. They’re listening, he reminded himself.

At length he gave a carefully crafted, deliberately enigmatic answer. “Not necessarily.”

Truth was, Kevin was apolitical, despite his religious conservatism. He’d never even registered to vote. But he did come from a community of fervent Republicans—conservative farmers and ranchers, most of whom were more likely to be troubled by Anne Lipscoy’s party than by her gender.

The light changed and they began walking again.

“Only weak men let themselves be led by a woman.”

Jassim’s pronouncement was matter-of-fact. But the assertion struck Kevin as so ludicrous that he couldn’t help but respond.

“Oh, come on. Are you serious?” Women were already in every facet of public life, including military combat. He honestly didn’t see why should they be any less capable of being president.

“It is a man’s role to lead.” Jassim’s said prosaically, as though this were common knowledge.

Kevin was well aware that this position was shared by fundamentalist Christians and Muslims alike. Even his own church taught that a woman’s place was in the home, at least until the nest was empty. But, given what he knew of Jassim, it struck him as inconsistent that the Kuwaiti would defend this line of thinking.

He decided Jassim was just trying to goad him into a debate. He often did that. Either way, Kevin told himself, what Jassim thought of women was irrelevant at this point. More pressing matters were at hand. He decided it best to remain silent.

Jassim, apparently still clueless to his friend’s angst, did not relent. “Even you Mormons believe that Allah made the man to lead and the woman to follow, no?”

But Kevin didn’t reply. He was in no mood for a debate. Thankfully, Jassim finally dropped the subject. They continued on in silence, crossing Getreidemarkt into the Sixth District.

As each step brought them closer to their destination, it also ratcheted up Kevin’s anxiety. He found himself growing ever more uncertain about what he was doing. How he wished he’d never gotten mixed up in all this. If he hadn’t he would have been back in Oregon by now. He wanted nothing more than to go home.

But his reverie was cut short by his rising panic. They were less than a block from the take-down point. His heart was beating so loud he could almost hear it. Every muscle in his body ached from the tension.

Café Sperl came into view. The moment of truth had arrived. If there was a time for equivocation, it had passed. The trap was set.

He fought the urge to turn and run. Oh, God! What’s the right thing to do?

The infuriatingly elusive answer to the question depended, of course, on whether Jassim al Shammari was terrorist or friend.

What if he’s both!?

That was the crux of his dilemma, he realized, and the most terrifying question of all. Until this moment he’d allowed himself to avoid asking it. But there it was. How does one make such decisions? A man’s life—his friend’s life—was in his hands. Could he really give him the Judas kiss?

As they reached the entrance to Café Sperl, Kevin stopped abruptly. Jassim regarded him with impatience. “What’s the matter?”

“I, uh…,” Kevin stammered. “Let’s go to Savoy instead,” he blurted, motioning across Lehárgasse toward a café a few blocks farther on. As he did so he saw on the far street corner a tall, muscular blond who was watching them intently. Though Kevin couldn’t identify him, he knew the guy would be armed and dangerous.

“No,” Kevin quickly recanted, turning back, “let’s go back
to—”

“Look,” Jassim interrupted, placing a hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “I’m going inside. If you want to join me, come on.” He turned and reached for the door.

“No!” Kevin shouted, lunging at him, nearly knocking him over. The collision threw both men off balance and they tumbled headlong toward the street. Jassim was able to right himself just in time to avert a nasty faceplant on the cobblestones, but Kevin was not so lucky. He landed hard, breaking his fall with outstretched arms as he skidded face-first toward the edge of the curb. Pain shot through his shoulders, and gravel shredded his palms, though he hardly noticed either of these things. Physical injury was the least of his worries at the moment.

He stole another glance across the street and saw that the burly blond was already sprinting toward them. At the same time, the black BMW near which the man had been standing roared to life. With a screech of rubber on stone the car shot across Lehárgasse, headed directly for them.

“Run!” Kevin yelled, pulling himself to his feet and tugging ineffectually at Jassim’s arm.

“Wha—,” Jassim began, apparently not understanding. His voice was drowned by the roar of the approaching Bimmer, which he suddenly noticed.

“CIA!” Kevin yelled, still tugging at his friend.

That three-letter acronym spurred Jassim into action as surely as a riding crop across his ass. He immediately bolted in the opposite direction, directly into Gumpendorferstraße, where he narrowly avoided a collision with a car that had spun and skidded to a stop in the intersection. He did not look back.

Kevin followed. His right shoulder protested fervently, but adrenaline reined in the pain as he struggled to close the distance to Jassim, now a good ten yards ahead of him.

The blond was nimble for a man his size and was almost upon Kevin. The man’s partner, who was driving the Bimmer, was forced to slam on the brakes when he reached the intersection, as the earlier stopped car had already provoked an arresting snarl of vehicles.

Kevin was grateful for the precious extra seconds this bought him.

The driver cranked the wheel hard right, as if to detour onto the sidewalk. But a series of reinforced-concrete posts guarding the crosswalk blocked his access. Had they not been there, the driver might have taken out two men who at that same moment burst out of Café Sperl and joined in the pursuit.

As Jassim and Kevin reached the opposite corner and turned into the narrow Fillgradergasse, the sudden squeal of tires suggested that the BMW had found another way around the obstacle.

Kevin’s heart was hammering out of his chest as he nearly caught up with Jassim. Though his feet moved at full speed, his mind seemed to run even faster. Oh my God! What am I doing!

Chapter 1

Tuesday, APRIL 13 5:11 AM WASHINGTON, DC

One month earlier

The Adams-Morgan came awake slowly in the wee hours of the workday. The first trickle of staffers and interns—the invisible underclass that kept the Washington political machine humming—were already making their way south on Columbia Road toward the Dupont Circle Metro station. Within the hour the trickle would grow to a flashflood, temporarily inundating the capital’s compact yet efficient subway system.

In contrast, Washington’s anointed—elected, appointed, or otherwise—never used public transit, no matter how efficient it might be. VIPs rode in Town Cars not train cars. Sleek, black limousines were ubiquitous throughout the District when Congress was in session—as it was presently. With their blacked-out windows—some bearing telltale plates of privilege—these plush, chauffeured rides were as plentiful in DC as yellow taxis in Manhattan.

One such black Lincoln cruised to a stop in front of a nondescript brick tenement on Biltmore Street. It did so unobserved. In this City of Secrets those who trafficked in them no longer froze their buns off in black trenchcoats on literal streets—an anachronism as surely old school as the Cold War itself. Instead, they watched from virtual streetcorners. Eyes and ears had become electronic. In the 21st century scandal erupts not in the newspaper but in the blogosphere. Anyone wanting to trip up an adversary must troll digital streams of voice, video, and verbiage; a far better use of time than skulking about like Sam Spade.

If any local residents were present, none noticed as the limo eructed a heavyset, grayhaired man in a black overcoat. Washingtonians had seen more than their share of politicians and remained singularly unimpressed. When the man slipped into an apartment at the northeast corner of the building, no one cared that he had shunned the main door in favor of a basement service entrance.

In the age of instant celebrity, not even the media bothered to stalk elected officials unless they were in the midst of a scandal. Dreary politicians were not deemed newsworthy unless they had visited a mistress, a madam, or a men’s room. Sex sold, even when it came to the evening news. The press, like its readership, demanded either glamour or humiliation of its news subjects.

This man offered them neither. True, he was guilty of serious crimes. But his sins were procedural; they were boring. They’d never make the evening news because they required explanations, something the modern media studiously avoided. Too many facts confused the audience, surpassing its thirty-second attention span. And the ratings-hungry media gave the public only what it wanted. The whole truth could be so inconvenient.

Despite this apparent lack of interest, the fat man always took elaborate precautions, no matter how remote the possibility of discovery. These meetings were never held in the same location twice. And he made sure that his chauffeur was handsomely compensated, lest he succumb to a lucrative bribe for information regarding his employer’s itinerary.

His next line of defense was spin, in which his skills were unparalleled. If rumors emerged regarding his activities or those of his allies, he would either spin the facts into a barely recognizable facsimile of the truth, or invoke the magical cloak of “national security” to keep the press from pursuing them further. It was a time-honored ploy that he had turned into an art form.

And lastly, there was the opposition on the Hill to deal with. If a senator or congressperson started poking around, all he had to do was produce a dossier. He had dirt on every one of them. And in a town where bad press could end a career in a heartbeat, that was usually all it took to quash an inquiry or even gain a favorable vote.

He was cautious, but never fearful. He knew exactly what he was doing and no one had ever gotten in his way for long.

Now, as he entered the tiny studio apartment—designed in an era that called for a residential night watchman—the rotund official closed the door behind himself. He passed silently through the tiny service porch into the adjacent, postage stamp–sized kitchen.

The sharply canted blinds eviscerated the waxing daylight that clamored at the small window, allowing only thin slivers of it to paint the room. The only other light permeating the darkness was that from a 40-watt bulb, bleeding around the partially open bathroom door. This was just enough to silhouette a second man already seated across the table.

Taking the chair opposite, the fat man said nothing. He simply cocked his head toward an object on the table, a gesture the other man correctly interpreted as a question. “It’s on,” he said in reply.

“It” was a DS3000 controller, part of a DynaSound “PEP” Pack. It stood for Portable Eavesdropping Protection. To thwart would-be listeners, the DS3000 communicated wirelessly with components attached to the apartment’s windows, plumbing, and exposed ductwork.

It wasn’t the most advanced technology available to these men, who certainly had easy access to more sophisticated countermeasures. But they chose the DynaSound because it was a technology employed by corporate spies. If they had chosen intelligence- or military-grade equipment—and it were discovered—suspicion would immediately be narrowed to highly placed government insiders such as they.

These two men were an odd couple of sorts. Other than a shared ideology, they had little in common. Certainly not in their physical appearance. Both had gray hair—the larger man had less of it—but the similarities stopped there.

The first man was younger and fitter than the abdominous senior politician who had just arrived. The latter’s appearance was redolent of a traveling salesman who had spent more than a few nights sleeping in his clothes. His pinguid complexion betrayed the precarious state of his health. Even now, despite the coolness of the early spring morning, the man’s sun-shy skin coruscated with excessive perspiration, as though the short walk from the limo had been a marathon.

In contrast, the other man’s sinewy muscles and bronzed, leathery hide were those of an avid outdoorsman. His erect posture was consistent with a military background, and although he was a civilian, he wore his expertly tailored Armani suit like a uniform, betraying a certain amount of vanity. This was a man who, at 66 years of age, was healthier than most men half his age. So healthy, he often boasted, that he never even took aspirin, and saw a doctor only for an annual physical.

In contrast, his 78-year-old coconspirator had already cheated death more than once. He had barely survived a quadruple heart bypass and now relied on daily meds to function. He was under a 24–7 health watch. Or so his doctor had ordered, anyway. His security detail—which he had dismissed for the duration of this tête-à-tête—included a fulltime emergency medical technician, in case he should keel over on short notice.

True privacy was a luxury that men in his position rarely enjoyed, even if in perfect health. They seldom escaped such from the microscope of public life. They were as closely watched as federal inmates at times. Even when they went to sleep at night they did so within shouting distance of two or more armed guards.

Today’s furtive encounter was a rare moment of liberty that allowed both of these men, if only for a moment, to speak their minds without having their thoughts vetted beforehand. Here there were no speechwriters, handlers, or spin-doctors to script and choreograph their interaction. No reporters waited to second-guess them or cast doubt upon their decisions. No members of Congress stood ready to launch investigations.

In this room there were no advisors, no Secret Service, and no sycophants. For a few minutes they would speak with complete candor and, more to the point, with complete impunity.

“What have we got,” asked the fat man, wasting no time on perfunctory greetings or small talk. Such formalities were unnecessary for these two, who had learned over the years to read each other pretty well. As longtime hunting-buddies they had passed countless hours during which hand signals served as their only communication. Stalking prey—whether feral or political—required little discussion. It did however require intense focus, infinite patience, and a coordinated plan, the reason they were here to today.

“RECOIL is a go,” said the younger man. “Our courier will be in place in seventy-two hours.”

“How do you plan to insert him?”

“We don’t. The CIA will be handling it for us.”

“Goddammit! You can’t bring the Agency in on this!” barked the fat man.

“Relax!” his colleague quickly assured him. He didn’t take the outburst personally. It was perfectly in character for the man who sat across from him. “We’ll be using a blind courier. The Agency will remain completely out of the loop. We’re piggybacking it onto a CIA op called BALLISTIC.”

“The mole op?”

“Exactly. The Agency’s planning on using outdated intelligence as bait to get him into a Munich al Qaeda cell.”

“Yeah, but—” the older man interjected.

The younger man raised both hands in a full-stop gesture. “Hold on. Hear me out,” he said. “We’re going to replace the Agency’s package with our own before it gets delivered. The courier will deliver live intelligence instead of the bogus data. And he’ll remain blind.”

“Who’s at risk?”

“Only Langley,” the younger man assured him. “The agent can only point to his handler, who will be the only one under suspicion.”

The elder man was not yet convinced. “And what’ll keep the handler from figuring it out?”

“He’s a rookie case officer on his first assignment. A young buck named Clarine from the former DDR.”

“And how secure will the swap be?”

“The Agency will be using a dead drop in Munich to avoid contamination of its asset. Our man will tail Clarine. Once he loads the drop, our guy comes in behind him to make the switch. As far as the Agency guys know, their agent will retrieve and deliver what they themselves gave him.”

“And if the package falls into the hands of the Agency?” the fat man continued, still skeptical.

“The evidence will point back to their own man. And we both know the DCI would chew off his own right arm before he’d go public with that suspicion. That gives us airtight PD.”

Plausible deniability was the magician’s cloak by which politicians, from the president on down, survived the Fourth Estate. The media was always eager to blow the whistle on a scandal. But the hasty publishing of a few unsubstantiated claims earlier in the decade had cost some prominent newsmen their jobs.

Since then reporters had become skittish about making accusations. No matter what the circumstantial evidence suggested, if you couldn’t prove a politician knew something, you couldn’t hang him. And without a smoking gun, the public could be persuaded to dismiss even the most egregious of behaviors.

The elder man’s doubts persisted. “After a decade of trying, the CIA has yet to manage a single infiltration of al Qaeda. What makes you think BALLISTIC’s got a snowball’s chance of succeeding?”

“It doesn’t have to,” the younger man said. “All we need to do is get the package delivered. Then we can blow the courier ourselves. CIA will take the rap and we’re home free.”

“And if the Agency gets to him first?”

“What can he tell them? That he delivered the package he found in the drop? If they believe him, it falls back to his handler. And if he denies knowledge of the package, it only goes further up the Agency’s own chain.”

The elder statesman looked unconvinced. “I don’t know. I’d be more comfortable if we could limit this to DIA only. There’d be much less exposure.”

“You’re right to be cautious,” the younger man conceded. “But believe me—this is much safer. If anything goes wrong, we need the focus to stay on the CIA. Otherwise, Lipscoy will have the House Intelligence Committee running a fullscale probe.” He was referring to the Democratic-controlled House, led by Speaker Anne Lipscoy. “And that would lead to too many questions that we don’t asked.”

“What makes you think the DCI will take the fall that easily?”

“He won’t,” admitted the younger man. “But Hamlin Cheady can point fingers until he’s blue in the face, but it won’t do any good. He won’t have any exculpatory evidence. The Agency’s record is so compromised already that no one on the Hill will want to hear any more of his excuses.”

“Yeah, but what about the retiring officer or deputy who decides to write a tell-all book that launches an investigation?” The elder man wiped his brow with an already moist hanky.

“You’ll be president by then,” replied his companion with a smile. “One word from you and no one will dare. Everyone at the Agency will know the score by then.”

The vice president sighed heavily but said nothing. He stared at the secretary of defense, seeking some further assurance perhaps.

“Nothing can be traced, Ham. Trust me, RECOIL is airtight.”

“This isn’t about trust, Dan” Hamlin Cheady replied tersely. “We’re talking treason here, for God’s sake. If I’m going to take that kind of risk, I’m going to need to know the details.”

“OK,” Danford Dulles said. “What do you need from me?”

“I want you to lay it out for me one step at a time—everything. This is a lot bigger than stealing an election—it’s a capital crime. We’re talking volts, not votes.”

Twenty minutes later the two men were finally on the same page. Both men had been off the grid for about as long as either one could before people started asking questions. Men of their stature couldn’t disappear for too long.

They left the apartment ten minutes apart, just as they had arrived—Dulles first, then Cheady—secure in the knowledge that the day they had both spent years planning for would soon be here.

Chapter 2

Tuesday, APRIL 13 4:27 PM GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA

Sami Jabarrah didn’t know why he’d been transferred from Camp 2, a medium-security lockup, to Camp 5, Delta’s maximum-security facility. In the two and a half years he’d been imprisoned at Guantánamo Bay Naval Air Station—or Gitmo, the navy’s affectionate name for it—such transfers had always been a matter of reward and punishment. If you resisted or caused trouble, you got “downgraded”; if you cooperated, your accommodations were “upgraded.”

He’d done nothing, as far as he knew, to merit this sudden isolation. Not recently anyway. There had been a time long ago when he protested his innocence. But every time he denied involvement with al Qaeda it earned him another slap, kick, or physical assault. At times it also resulted in food-, sleep-, or sensory deprivation through a variety of methods.

Apparently the interrogators’ questions were multiple choice. And “not guilty” wasn’t an option.

At times he wished he had been guilty of a crime; then there would be some justice—a purpose—to his suffering. Other prisoners had expressed similar sentiments. They all claimed to be innocent, of course. And, given Sami’s own situation, he had no reason to doubt that they were. Just as he was.

Despite this, some of them had made up confessions in hopes of ending their ordeal. That stratagem was only partly successful. They weren’t released, but a confession did earn an upgrade to Camp 4, where they now received increased privileges. Not exactly a life of ease, to be sure, but the torture stopped and life became more bearable.

Sami certainly understood why some prisoners made this deal with the devil. He himself had been tempted more than once to do it. But it raised an ethical dilemma for him, because when a prisoner confessed, even to imagined crimes, the interrogators demanded names. If you didn’t produce a roster of coconspirators, your confession was deemed incomplete. To save your own ass then, meant you had to take others down with you. The only people he could finger would be as innocent as he was. And he wasn’t willing to go down that road. If he died in this place, he decided, he would do so with his honor intact.

Al Jabarrah’s nightmare had begun just over two years earlier, during the last year of his PhD studies at Georgetown University. It began without warning. One night about 10 o’clock he was on campus waiting for his bus home. They came and dragged him off—not an arrest but a kidnapping. No warrant was produced. No Miranda rights recited. No identification shown. He didn’t even know who “they” were. FBI or CIA, he guessed. Maybe Blackwater or some other private contractors for the Department of Homeland Security.

Sami protested that it must be a case of mistaken identity. He was sure it could all be straightened out with a few phone calls. But they didn’t allow him to make any. He told them that although he was Syrian-born he was a naturalized US citizen. He’d never been in trouble with the law. But his kidnappers just roughed him up some more. Police records were irrelevant. Citizenship as well. They told him he was an “enemy combatant.”

Sami immediately understood the dire ramifications of that designation: he was a political prisoner. It meant he had been stripped of his civil rights.

The USA Patriot Act, passed and strengthened in the years following the 9-11 attacks on New York’s World Trade Center, allowed the government to lock him up forever if it cared to. No indictments, no lawyers, no convictions; not even any charges were necessary. Some called it “guilty until proven innocent.” But it was worse: it was a final sentence. There would be no chance to prove anything. He had fallen into the American Gulag.

His wife wouldn’t know what had happened to him. No one would. Like hundreds—perhaps thousands—of other Muslims, he had been “disappeared” by government thugs. It was the MO of a South American dictator, not an American democracy. But such academic arguments were of no use at Gitmo and Sami quickly learned not to make them in his own defense.

It was whispered among the prisoners that there were only two ways out of Camp Delta: either you died or you were transferred to one of the other even less visible “black sites” abroad. Given what was done at Gitmo, Sami didn’t even want to imagine what might go on in those remote places.

Like other “detainees,” as the US military euphemistically referred to its political prisoners, Sami had learned the hard way that to the Christians running Camp Delta, being a Muslim was crime enough, regardless of nationality or political activity. Whether Arab, Turk, Pakistani, Indonesian, African, or even American—in the eyes of the US authorities, all of Muhammed’s disciples bore a scarlet ‘E’ for “enemy combatant.”

Those who carried out the abuse at Gitmo—like the men who had kidnapped him—were of undisclosed agency affiliation. FBI? CIA? Delta Force? Blackwater? The “examiners” wore no uniforms and were addressed only as “Sir” in a prisoner’s presence. The skill with which these men—and occasionally women—executed their psychological warfare, combined with the deference they were shown, even by high-ranking military officers, suggested they were CIA. But what did it matter, really? They all took their orders from the same government.

It was clear that regardless of official titles, the interrogator held supreme authority at Camp Delta. He operated according to the principle that there were only two kinds of prisoners—easy to break, and hard to break. Their guilt was never in question.

If the first extraction technique the inquisitor employed failed to elicit a satisfactory response, he would pull another, more sinister one out of his bag of tricks. Beyond that awaited another, and another—each worse than the one before—until the increasingly desperate measures devolved into physical abuse and perversion. Yet never did the torturer flinch. Clearly, compassion was weakness.

To the thugs who controlled these sessions, an already guilty subject only became guiltier with each such episode he managed to endure. This called for harsher techniques. Like the adage about the “witches” of Salem: if an accused woman survived an attempt to drown her, she was confirmed a witch and must therefore be burned. But if she couldn’t save herself from drowning, then she had been innocent. That she was already dead was irrelevant to her accusers. They were simply doing God’s will.

Sami knew better than to show any contempt for Christian fundamentalism. In truth, he found it to be no different than that of the radical Islamists. Both sought to terrorize and eliminate anyone who dared to challenge their narrow view of God’s law. But how could he make his captors understand that he held al Qaeda in the same contempt that they did?

At Gitmo, it didn’t take Sami long to learn to stop protesting his innocence. His subsequent silence, however, was seen as defiance. It wasn’t; he simply didn’t know what to say. He had no answers to the questions they barked at him for hours on end, day after day, week after week. Who were the other cell members he collaborated with? Who did he take orders from? Where had he been trained? Why was he getting a PhD in advanced Biochemistry? What targets would he use this knowledge against?

Sami wondered, how does an innocent person answer a multiple-choice question when the truth is not one of the options given? If you’re asked whether your concealed handgun is loaded or unloaded, either answer is an admission that you actually have a handgun. Clearly, the interrogators’ questions were designed to entrap.

But silence still earned him psychological torture: vicious dogs nipping at his naked body, “waterboarding”—partial drowning; a gun to the head, the trigger pulled repeatedly, Russian-roulette style. These tactics were intended to induce fear and panic, and were often successful.

When Sami first immigrated to the US from Syria four years earlier, he embraced the noble principles embodied in the US Constitution, the same principles to which he later took an oath of citizenship. And because of these principles, his underlying faith in America persisted in spite of the abuse he suffered at Gitmo. Camp Delta was the antithesis of all that America stood for. Yet despite what he had experienced there, he believed that such perversions of justice were an aberration. They weren’t American. They were merely the excesses of overzealous sadists frightened by an enemy they didn’t understand and couldn’t easily identify.

This belief allowed him to endured his pain through clenched teeth, certain that help would come as soon as word of the abuse got out. Americans were good, just people. If they knew what was being done in their name they wouldn’t stand for it. They would march in the streets and demand change.

This was his hope. And it was all he had.

Most of the prisoners at Camp Delta had been there for more than five years. If they hadn’t confessed by now, they probably weren’t going to. And that led to the inescapable conclusion that unless the government wished to feed and clothe its captives forever—a costly proposition—it would have to either release or execute them. This fed the hope of optimists and fears of pessimists in the camp equally.

Unsettling rumors of a “final solution” had been circulating in the camp recently. Some said that the new Camp 6 being constructed was a “death camp” where executions would be carried out. Some prisoners referred to it sardonically as “the ovens.” The most bitter among the prisoners said this was meant to be “the Zionist’s revenge” for the Holocaust.

But Sami dismissed such hysteria. After all, it had been Christians, not Muslims, killing Jews. America’s politicians may be corrupt, but even they weren’t capable of doing the unthinkable, Sami was certain.

Yet many in the camps did not share his certainty and had begun to lose hope when numerous legal challenges to their detention had failed in US courts. Some prisoners decided they wouldn’t leave their fate in the hands of their captors, killing themselves instead. A last act of self-determination.

Sami didn’t know why, but eventually his interrogators seemed to grow bored with his intransigence. Or maybe they just had more interesting suspects to torture. Either way, they finally stopped bringing him to the interrogation room altogether. He wasn’t upgraded, nor downgraded, but simply ignored. Perhaps they hoped he, like others, would kill himself and rid them of a thorny problem.

But that would not be Sami’s choice. He prayed and waited. He solved complex equations in his head to keep his mental acuity sharp. He allowed himself fifteen minutes morning and night to dwell on his family—enough to keep the emotional bond intact and remind himself why he would survive. He didn’t know if or when he would ever see his family again. He wondered whether his wife had given up hope, whether his youngest children even remembered him. But he was determined not to allow himself to grow maudlin or depressed.

Instead, he developed a routine and settled in for the duration. In Camp 2 he had been allowed one shower per week. But he was not granted the fifteen- or thirty-minute walk in the exercise yard that residents of Camp 4 got. He was also denied the good-behavior amenities—books, movies, social contact—afforded to those who had confessed.

Other than the Koran, the only objects to grace his cell were the standard prayer rug, prayer beads, and prayer cap given to all prisoners who wer not being punished for some offense. Sami considered these to be odd concessions to the prisoners’ religion, given that his captors regularly defiled that religion when it suited their purposes. Occasionally the religious items would disappear without explanation, only to suddenly reappear later. A psychological exercise, no doubt.

Now he found himself in isolation, for unknown reasons. Two days earlier two guards pulled him from his cell without warning. Putting him in the standard “three-piece suit,” the conjoined manacles and leg-irons always used for prisoner transfers, they hauled him off to Camp 5. He didn’t bother to ask them for an explanation. Conversation with the guards was always futile.

Since he had been here his meals had been arriving on schedule—slipped through a slot in the door—but he had neither seen nor spoken to anyone. He’d been left entirely to himself to ponder what this turn of events might signify.

That was about to change.

“Chaplain on the block!” a voice boomed through the corridor outside his cell. A moment later the guard was shouting instructions through the door.

“Remain seated on the bunk, your back against the wall. Keep your hands visible.”

Sami did as instructed. The lock turned and the cell door swung open, revealing not only the guard, but also an officer. His uniform read “Mayes,” a captain. Sami knew him as “Jeep.” He was Camp Delta’s Islamic chaplain. He was frequently dispatched to give spiritual counsel, either because a prisoner requested it, or for purposes that suited the interrogators.

Sami didn’t know whether Jeep had ever witnessed the physical abuse that took place during interrogations. Even so, how could the guy reconcile the hypocrisy of the situation? All he had to do was look at the broken men before him to understand what went on there. It didn’t take a trained eye.

If you believed Jeep’s story, he was a convert to Islam. But Sami suspected this was just a part of a larger lie. While the chaplain dealt in the same aphorisms and scriptural texts as the imam at a local mosque, his words rang hollow in this environment.

The entire concept of a chaplain at Camp Delta was offensive to Sami. It was entirely incongruous with the mission of the prison’s interrogators; one broke the spirit of the men, the other purported to heal it. No one truly devoted to Allah could condone what was being done at Gitmo. No matter how soothing his speech or empathetic his demeanor, the chaplain was complicit in the atrocities. Sami had no desire to speak with the man.

As the guard closed the cell door and locked it behind him, Jeep stepped into the cell and smiled. “Salaam alaykum!”

Sami ignored him.

“I thought maybe a reading from the sacred text might lift your spirits,” Jeep said, taking a seat on the metal shelf that served as a bunk. As he did so, he patted the space next to him, inviting Sami to sit beside him. Sami didn’t move. He stared blankly at the chaplain.

Jeep opened the Quran he had brought with him. “Do you mind if I read in English?” he asked. The question was rhetorical, as the book he held was an English translation.

Despite being curious as to the purpose of this visit, Sami did not ask. After two-plus years of incarceration he had come to realize that reasons were irrelevant in Camp Delta. Unless the chaplain had come with news of his impending release, it really didn’t matter much why he was here.

Undeterred by the prisoner’s lack of response, Jeep began to read selected passages aloud. When he was done with the third of these he turned to Jabarrah and said, “Maybe you’d rather read the next one yourself.” There was a question in the chaplain’s tone, but again it was rhetorical, for despite Sami’s shake of the head to the contrary, Jeep extended the Quran to him.

Sami was about to decline the outstretched book when he noticed that there was a note inserted between the pages. Despite his intention to refuse, he found himself taking the Quaran. Silently he read the handwritten note.

I can get you out. Tomorrow, one hour after Shurooq, act out stomach cramps and request medical attention. Further details in the infirmary.

Sami was stunned, but he had the presence of mind to keep his face from registering it within view of the ubiquitous surveillance cameras. Was Jeep a true ally after all?

Slowly he handed the Quran back to the chaplain, making eye contact with him for the first time since he had arrived. Nothing in the man’s face betrayed his actual thoughts, but the brief moment of connectedness lasted slightly longer than seemed natural, suggesting that a deeper communication was taking place.

“Well, OK then,” said Jeep, his tone airy. “It looks like you’re not in the mood for any more right now.” It was bad acting, but Sami realized now that it was for the cameras. The chaplain stood and gave three taps on the cell door. “Chaplain.” As the door opened, he turned back to the prisoner. “Allah u akhbar!”

The door closed and Jeep disappeared. The locked turned and silence fell, leaving Sami to contemplate the meaning of the strange encounter. Sunrise Prayer now seemed a long way off.

Chapter 3

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14 11:30 AM VIENNA, AUSTRIA

It doesn’t take much to draw out the Viennese after a cold, dreary winter. And today was no exception. Thanks to the pleasant spring weather, foot traffic along Mariahilferstraße was already brisk at thirty minutes before noon.

A few blocks into the popular shopping zone, which straddles the Sixth and Seventh Districts just outside the Ring, stands a shoe store of enormous proportions. As Europe’s largest department store, Humanic dominates the smaller traditional shops whose company it shares on Mariahilfer.

There is, however, one nearby presence with which the shoeseller must compete for grandiosity: the rococo-towered Stiftskirche directly across the street. Among local houses of worship, the venerable convent church—built in 1739 by a long-forgotten architect—is actually rather diminutive. Still, it commands a certain respect that only history can impart.

To the newcomer, the face-off of the two imposing structures is a jarring juxtaposition of past and present, sacred and secular. The locals, however, don’t give it a second thought. It’s simply Vienna.

On the broad sidewalk just outside Humanic’s four-story plateglass windows a less common convergence of modern and traditional now presented itself in the form of two Mormon missionaries.

Like so many before them, this pair had come halfway around the globe to ask a staunchly Catholic Viennese population to abandon the 1600-year-old faith of the Stiftskirche—the world’s oldest Christian religion—in favor of a of a neophyte belief system less than 200 years old.

Twice a month this college-aged duo—or perhaps an identical pair—showed up here to erect a sidewalk display and practice their sales pitch on the Viennese. Mariahilfer was arguably one of the few inner-city locales where it was possible to find at least as many local residents as tourists, even at the height of the season.

But it was only the locals that mattered to the missionaries, whose target demographic was aged 20 to 40 years, married with children (or soon to be), and financially secure. In short: the ideal yuppie family.

Kevin Davis would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the best salesman. Sure, he could recite the standard missionary pitch as well as the next guy—and his German was excellent—but his heart wasn’t really in it.

Not that he didn’t believe in the message. It was just that strongarming potential converts wasn’t his style. He absolutely hated to argue. And he found it terribly unpleasant to have to convince anyone of anything, no matter how much he might believe it himself.

Still, that was exactly what he’d been sent here to do. Euphemistically they called it “sharing” the Gospel, but it was still selling. The techniques they used differed little from those of a door-to-door salesman. Whenever Davis tried to “close” the deal, as he was expected to do, it made him feel like an asshole. Conversion and baptism were far too personal to lend themselves to such pressure tactics.

Religious conversion was a decidedly hard sell in Austria. It was an area in which tradition-bound Austrians did not adapt well to change. Humanic’s cutting-edge shoe styles they could handle. But in matters of religion Austrians still clothed themselves in the garb of their ancestors. History counted for a lot in a nation so thoroughly drenched in it.

As the one-time seat of the Holy Roman Empire, Vienna was a poster child for the very marriage of church and state against which America’s founders had so carefully guarded their new republic. Ironically, Europe had finally established a secular union, largely free of religious influence, while America had been slipping ever closer toward theocracy in recent years.

Having witnessed the religious abuses of their own past, Austrians were alarmed at this shift. Despite a devotion to their own faith, Austrians found the American penchant for public evangelism distasteful. They saw it as an extension of the neoconservative politics that had gripped the United States during the last decade.

While younger Austrians were decidedly more receptive to new ideas than were their parents, their willingness to entertain them often amounted to little more than intellectual curiosity. Rarely did it rise to the level of the “search for happiness” in which the missionaries trafficked.

But that didn’t dissuade the enthusiastic young men bearing a message from the Christian God of Salt Lake City. They were trained to expect such reticence. It was their destiny to sift through the chaff in search of the righteous few.

Missionary work, like business and sports, was a numbers game. Competition was promoted, with each missionary’s successes and failures published for all to see. Those with the highest number of baptisms usually got promoted to district- or zone leader.

With lower than average numbers, Davis was neither. At some point during his two years of service he had abandoned the sales approach in favor of a new one involving, not coincidentally, the twin nemeses of the salesman: sincerity and truth. OK, so maybe it was selective truth, but at least he kept it free of bullshit.

This adjustment allowed him to feel better about himself, though it still didn’t result in increased baptisms. But that didn’t bother him. He wasn’t the competitive type. He didn’t aspire to title or rank. He just wanted meet his two-year obligation.

His only goal now was to get through his last seventeen days without screwing it up. On May 1 he would be on the flight home. He could hardly wait.

From his vantage point just inside the giant shoe store, the Kuwaiti had been watching for the last ten minutes as the two guys in suits—undoubtedly some kind of salesmen—set up what looked like an information kiosk. They were young for salesmen--probably about his own age, or maybe a few years younger. In fact, one of them looked to be just a teenager.

They were undoubtedly American. Something about the way Americans interacted with the world made them unmistakable. They projected a certain confidence—or was it arrogance?—like they owned the world. He’d heard Americans themselves proudly describe this imperious attitude as “in your face,” as if it was something they aspired to.

Whatever set them apart, Jassim al Shammari always took a keen interest in Americans. It was so easy to goad them into a political debate. Unlike most Europeans, they were always eager to share their opinions with complete strangers. For his own amusement, al Shammari often went out of his way to draw them into a battle of wits. It was such child’s play.

Making his move now, he passed through Humanic’s broad front entrance and slipped into the crowd of shoppers on the sidewalk. Slowly, inconspicuously, he made his way toward the Americans. The shorter of the two, he noted as he got closer, was slightly built, with mousy brown hair, ruddy complexion, animated eyes, and a smile that was too enthusiastic to be genuine. Having finished setting up the last of his displays the salesman was now unabashedly accosting unsuspecting shoppers to promote whatever it was he was selling.

Al Shammari did not interrupt his efforts. He had already decided to go for the older guy: a redhead with a more sedate and, no doubt, mature demeanor. The guy stood erect but relaxed, in no apparent hurry. Just under six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and swimmer’s build. His physical presence was unthreatening. Definitely not military, thought Jassim. Absent were the strut and swagger of the American GIs that frequented Vienna. Jassim had seen far too many of those, who often went out of their way to show their contempt for Arabs.

As al Shammari closed in he could hear the younger salesman regaling a hapless pensioner he had managed to corner. He still couldn’t make out the guy’s sales pitch, but the elderly woman exercised an admirable abundance of patience with the American’s faltering German and overbearing manner. The poor woman was too polite to extricate herself.

The redhead, meanwhile, approached no one. He offered only an occasional smile or nod to passersby with whom he made eye contact.

It could be difficult to meet a Wiener’s gaze. They were a notoriously guarded lot. While they tended to be as amiable as any other Austrian once you got to know them, they, like New Yorkers, often cloaked their friendliness in the carapace of caution that big-city life seemed to demand.

At length, al Shammari emerged from the flow of the crowd with a languid gait and breezy manner that belied the resoluteness of his intentions. He stopped in front of a pair of easels that stood between him and the redhead and studied the display with a put-on nonchalance. He finally saw what the pair was “selling”: Christianity.

Of course, he thought cynically. How American. God was just one more commodity to them. Something they bought and sold like everything else. As if he were theirs to offer. What did they know of God, anyway?

He doubted these guys even knew the history of their own religion. Modern Christians took one violent incident and painted all of Islam black with it. Yet they ignored entire centuries of violence perpetrated by Christians against Islam during the Crusades.

But he wouldn’t bring that up. Not yet, at least. He’d wait and see where this went. In the meantime, maybe he could have some fun.

On the easel before him was a poster of a soaring white marble building identified as “the Washington Temple.” Aren’t all of Washington’s buildings temples? thought al Shammari. Their politics and their religion were inseparable, despite their protestations to the contrary. They weren’t as different from the Taliban or al Qaeda as they liked to think. They all killed for God.

The next display featured the long-dead 19th-century founder of this pair’s church. Prim and stuffy, he was the epitome of the British imperialists who had once occupied and exploited Arab nations. This one, said the caption, had been martyred by an angry mob. No surprise there.

Al Shammari moved to a nearby table where picture-perfect Anglo families smiled at him from the covers of brochures with titles such as “Families Are Forever” and “Man’s Search For Happiness.” Propaganda, meant to convince him that Christians were really all about love.

Jassim was going to let the redhead make the first move. He feigned interest in the perky platitudes and spiritual messages on display and waited. The redhead stood, about three meters to his right. He had just noticed his new visitor. Jassim turned casually and met the American’s gaze, yet neither acknowledged the other. They simply stood as if in suspended animation.

Elder Davis wasn’t sure why the Arab made him nervous. The guy, roughly his own age, looked anything but threatening. Vienna had a large Semitic population. Davis saw Arabs almost daily, especially in the districts surrounding the Naschmarkt, a huge open-air market several blocks from where he now stood.

He’d never met an Arab though. There certainly weren’t any back home in Prineville—a ranching town of fewer than 10,000 people. If one showed up there he would no doubt be immediately reported to Homeland Security. Most locals in that cow town had probably never seen an Arab, except on TV news. There was no difference between “Arab” and “terrorist” in that part of the world.

Kevin didn’t consider himself a racist or religious bigot, though he could name plenty of them back home , though he had to admit that he knew nothing more of Islam than what he’d gleaned from TV, little of which was favorable.

He knew other missionaries that had run-ins with Muslims in Vienna. He himself had only met one—a Pakistani woman—and she had been very gracious. She even fixed a meal for Davis and his companion at the time. But they never discussed religion—theirs or hers—with the woman. The rules didn’t allow it.

The Missionary Handbook stated, “Muslims should be engaged in a Gospel discussion only if they initiate it.” This, the handbook explained, was a matter of “respect for Islam, not discrimination against any particular group of people.”

Despite this explanation, the missionaries all understood that the rule was in place for their own security, first and foremost. The worldwide policy had been adopted following the earthshattering events of September 11, 2001.

The subsequent American “war on terror” had put Christians and Muslims everywhere on an adversarial footing. Christian evangelism—whether Mormon or otherwise—was seen as an extension of American imperialism, just as the goal of the Crusades had been to either kill or convert Muslims in the Holy Land.

Given the current political climate, Kevin understood enough to be wary of Muslims.

Yet the Arab standing before the storyboards seemed far from hostile. The guy had been there for several minutes and was now looking at him. Deciding it was too awkward to keep ignoring him Kevin finally looked his way. Now they were locked in a silent stare.

There was something about the Arab that piqued Kevin’s curiosity. He didn’t know what it was, but it was strangely compelling. For a moment, Kevin found himself unable to do anything but stand and stare.

Davis wasn’t the only one dogged by indecision. The Kuwaiti was also second-guessing himself, the inertia of delay having eroded his earlier determination. He turned away. This had been a foolhardy scheme.

Just then the American broke the silence. “Morgen!”

Al Shammari turned back to find himself eye-to-chin with the redhead, who stood a good six inches taller than he. “Morning,” Jassim replied in English, flashing a broad smile.

Details about the American that had escaped Jassim from afar now came into focus. Small, slightly out-turned ears bracketed a handsomely elliptical face punctuated by a short, aquiline nose. The guy’s rosy complexion was not only blemish-free; it lacked even the shadow of a beard. He was just a kid after all. His eyebrows were a shade darker than his hair, which was less red now than it had seemed from a distance. It had been razor-cut above the ears and collar. Soft, short curls fell across his smooth forehead, reminding Jassim of the cherubs in the cathedral at Karlsplatz.

The two strangers looked at each other for a moment longer than was comfortable. The Kuwaiti’s intense brown eyes were nearly black. The American’s deepset aquamarine eyes sparkled expectantly. Al Shammari anticipated a sales pitch. Davis hoped the Arab would ask the first question, thus satisfying the mission rules.

Unnerved by the silence, the American extended a business-like hand and shook the Arab’s. He was surprised at its softness. He wasn’t sure why, but he had somehow expected the guy to be more rugged. “Hi. I’m Elder Davis.”

Al Shammari laughed good-naturedly. “So is that the ‘younger Davis’?” He cocked his head toward the second missionary, who was still pursuing passersby.

“No.” It took an effort not to roll his eyes at the tedious—but frequently asked—question. “Elder is just a title,” Davis explained. “That’s my companion, Elder Boehmer.” We’re missionaries.” He wasn’t sure if he should say from which church, since the guy hadn’t yet initiated a religious discussion.

“Ah,” replied the Arab with a raised eyebrow. “Your companion.”

His tone and portentous nod suggested that he may have misunderstood Davis’s use of the term. The American clarified. “My assigned missionary partner.”

“Ah,” said the Arab again.

There was something smug in that single syllable. Was the guy yanking his chain? Davis wondered. Most people recognized Mormon missionaries. They’d been ubiquitous in Austria, two-by-two in suits and ties, since shortly after World War II.

Of course, this guy was from the Middle East where there’d never been any Latter-Day Saint missions. Maybe he’d really never seen a Mormon missionary before.

“Well, Elder,” said the Arab, putting emphasis on the title, “I’m Jassim.” He extended his hand once again.

“Nice to meet you,” Kevin said, with a firm handshake.

With the awkward introductions behind them, Jassim charged ahead. “So, will you do this all day?”

It was an odd question. Kevin wasn’t sure how to answer. He kept his answer vague. “Well, not exactly. But we do spend most of our time talking to people, if that’s what you mean.” He avoided the loaded terms “teach” and “convert” usually used to describe missionary activities.

“You must be good at conversation, then.” There was no hint of sarcasm in the Arab’s quick reply and Kevin couldn’t help but laugh. He felt his apprehension subsiding.

“I don’t know about that,” he said, with a touch of bashfulness.

“Well I would enjoy conversing with you. When do you rest from this?” Jassim gestured to the literature laid out before them.

“Well,” Kevin hesitated, still not sure where this was going. “We only get Mondays off.”

“Surely you will eat before then!” al Shammari said with mock astonishment, making a show of looking at his watch.

“Uh, yeah,” Kevin laughed, “but we usually—

“Then you will join me for lunch?” al Shammari interrupted.

Kevin balked, but before he could answer, Jassim raised a palm to silence him. “You say it is your job to talk to people, no?”

“Well, yes, but—

“Then you will be my guest for lunch,” Jassim informed him, not allowing a rebuttal. “You can talk to me.”

The Arab’s directness caught Kevin completely off guard. Moments earlier he had worried about the possibility of an anti-Christian rant from an Islamic fanatic. Instead it was a lunch invitation.

Normally such eagerness in a prospect would be seen as a godsend. But the rule against actively proselytizing Muslims made Kevin uncharacteristically cautious. He stammered for a moment, but failed to articulate a coherent reply.

The Arab gave him a wounded look. Taking the American’s less-than-eager response to be a rejection, he started to apologize for the intrusion.

Davis interrupted him. “No, really, it’s very nice of you to ask,” he said, doing his best to reject the offer politely. “But we probably won’t break until about one-thirty.” It was the only excuse he could come up with on the spot.

“Perfect,” replied Jassim with a satisfied grin. “I will be here at one-thirty, then.”

Before Kevin could respond, the Arab had said goodbye and was weaving through stopped traffic to the opposite side of the street. With a wave he was gone.

Kevin stood staring after him, wondering what had just happened.

Chapter 4

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14 7:21 AM GUANTÁNAMO BAY
At oh-seven-two-one hours, just fifteen minutes after the start of Shurooq—the Sunrise Prayer—a silent trio emerged from the Camp 5 lockup and headed across the Camp Delta compound. Two armed guards wearing medical masks and gloves flanked a doubled-over prisoner in the standard three-piece suit.

Though Sami had complained only of a stomachache, the guards’ protective suits were standard protocol for a prisoner under “medical quarantine.” Though Jabarrah didn’t know it, the official camp log recorded this as the reason for his transfer to Camp 5.

Of course, he wasn’t sick. He had simply picked up the chaplain’s gauntlet and was acting out the part that had been scripted for him.

He had wrestled only a short while with the decision to accept Jeep’s invitation. He had nothing to lose. He was already a prisoner; there was no need for an elaborate entrapment. If they wanted to torture him again, they’d just do it, as they had always done before. They wouldn’t whisper cryptic conspiracies in his ear. And if Jeep was sincere, Sami would be a fool to pass up the chance, no matter how remote, of getting out of Camp Delta.

The escorts arrived at the infirmary with their prisoner, who clutched his abdomen in pretended distress. They were met at the door by an imposing figure—a man of a physical stature that could only be described as intimidating. He did not look like a medic. But if the guards had any doubts, they did not express them.

“Over here,” the square-jawed blond barked through the thick beard visible at the edges of his protective mask. He pointed the entourage to one of several gurneys that lined one wall of the stark, white emergency room. The guards helped—shoved, actually—Jabarrah onto the gurney, where he fell onto his back grimacing in feigned discomfort. One guard remained at his bedside. The other turned and punching a code into a digital pad on the wall, exited through the main door.

The tall, brawny man snapped on the second of his surgical gloves and began to examine his patient. He wore neither scrubs nor a uniform. Instead he had on desert camo pants and a tight black T-shirt that accented a fearsome pair of pectorals and equally impressive biceps. The guy seemed to Sami more CIA than medic.

He hated those goons. They were usually easy to single out from among the military grunts. The troops were overwhelmingly young, and often cocky, mouthing off and using foul language when no officers were present. The spooks, in contrast, were “cool,” displaying more self-assurance than the military men. They were also less overtly threatening, but ultimately more menacing, despite their lack of uniforms and visible weapons. And Sami knew from experience that CIA interrogators inflicted much worse suffering than anything the young recruits and their officers dished out.

After only a couple of minutes Sami was pretty sure this guy wasn’t a true medic. He never bothered to ask his patient a single questions during the “exam.” Like “Where does it hurt?” for instance. This guy worked silently, as if he already knew that his patient was faking it. Was this part of the chaplain’s plan? Or would he expose it, earning Sami further torture as punishment?

It was too late to worry about any of this, Sami told himself. Jeep had promised further information and all he could do was wait and see if it came. For now he would continue to play the part he’d been assigned.

The faux medic was hovering over him now, pressing his lower abdomen on the left side, where Sami thought his appendix ought to be. He obliged with a grunt of pain and a grimace to enhance the effect. The man soon let up and began preparing an injection.

Sami was sure this wasn’t standard medical procedure for someone who complained of a stomachache. He suddenly felt a surge of adrenaline. Had he carried the act a bit too far?

Or had he simply been played for a fool? Did Jeep lure him here with a promise of freedom, only to have him endure further abuse? But that still made no sense.

The “medic” inserted the needle in Sami’s arm. Another involuntary surge of adrenaline coursed through him. He didn’t know whether it was due to the injection or his escalating fear. Was he being given mind-altering drugs—or worse, being rendered immobile but alert—only to witness his own vivisection? Physical abuse was nothing new to him, but a drug-induced horror might be the next level of what they called “enhanced interrogation.”

Acting with an authority that belied his youthful blue eyes, his examiner turned to the remaining guard and summarily dismissed him. The soldier asked for no explanation. Still, the medic told him that the patient had been anesthetized for surgery and would pose no threat to the medical staff for the duration. Sami saw no evidence that there was any other “staff” around.

The soldier’s immediate “yessir” and unquestioning obedience told Sami this guy had authority. Yet the guard did not salute as he left, so the man who played medic was not an officer. Definitely CIA. Sami had seen this dynamic before. The military grunts always deferred to the Agency men.

He was not pleased to be left alone with the spook.

Sami began to steel himself against another round of torture. Sweat had already beaded on his brow. What had he been injected with? What were they planning to do to him this time?

Before he could indulge this fearful question further, a sudden drowsiness robbed him of his ability to form coherent thoughts. As consciousness fled, he stole a look at his captor. His face was a blank slate. Sami wanted to be angry, but lacked the mental acuity now even to form a vindictive thought, let alone an indignant look.

And then it was all gone—the anger, the tension, the fear. He slept deeply.

Chapter 5

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14 1:48 PM VIENNA

Café Kafka was a cozy, if nondescript, neighborhood restaurant just a short walk down Capistrangasse from the spot on Mariahilfer where Jassim had introduced himself.

In a city that oozed Baroque the café’s interior was refreshingly modern. Bright and clean. The trio was seated in a booth by the front windows, a floor-to-ceiling grid of panels that had been swung open to allow access to the cool breeze. A row of movable planters separating them from the sidewalk gave them a modicum of privacy.

At the sight of the café’s name Kevin wondered if he himself might not be a Kafka character, inexplicably caught up in a vaguely absurd situation over which some inscrutable entity had taken control.

The Arab was admittedly peculiar. But so far the experience was not proving unpleasant. Kevin didn’t often eat in restaurants. That was an expensive proposition for anyone on a budget in Vienna. Even more so by the parsimonious standards of a self-supported missionary. After nearly two years of his own cooking—or worse, his companions’—he was grateful now to be eating out.

The family-run Kafka specialized in comfort food Austrian-style. The menu included schnitzel, weißwurst, knödel, spätzle, and gulashsuppe, any of which Kevin would have no problem devouring. Better still was the apple strudel, which he absolutely loved. He planned to take the recipe home to his mom, whose apple pies he had never liked, even as a kid. When he was eight years old he remembered picking apples off the family’s trees and feeding them to the horses, in hopes his mom wouldn’t have enough left for pies.

Despite the list of mouthwatering dishes before him now, he was having difficulty focusing on the menu, let alone choosing from it. His thoughts kept returning to the unusual way in which he and Boehmer had come to be here with this enigmatic stranger.

The young man called Jassim had returned precisely at 1:30 PM, just as he had promised. By that time Davis had already pulled Boehmer aside and described his odd encounter with the Arab—how the guy had unilaterally made a lunch date and walked off.

Although they both found this strange, Davis assured his companion that Jassim was nonthreatening and probably meant no harm. Still, after some discussion they decided that if he did come back, they would politely decline the invitation. Case closed.

Yet when Jassim showed up, neither of the missionaries attempted to break the date as they had intended to do. Boehmer, accustomed to deferring to his senior companion, had expected Davis to take the lead. But for reasons even he couldn’t explain, Davis found himself unable to refuse the gregarious stranger.

It was Jassim’s turn to be caught offguard however, when he discovered that he had a lunch date with not one, but both of the young Americans. His invitation had been intended only for the redheaded one. That they insisted on staying together made him wonder if perhaps he had correctly understood the meaning of the term “companion” when Davis had first used it.

When the waitress arrived, Kevin noticed that Jassim, whose menu lay on the table, ordered without having opened it. He was clearly a frequent customer here. Not wanting to abuse the hospitality of a stranger, Kevin ordered an inexpensive Käseteller, a plate of local cheeses with fruit. Boehmer, whose proficiency with High German was only marginal, was completely clueless when it came to the local Wiener dialect in which the menu was printed. But he was too proud to accept his companion’s assistance with translation, so he ordered items that needed none: bratwurst and sauerkraut.

When the waitress had gone, Jassim continued to pepper his guests with questions, as he had done throughout their short walk to the café. At first he had been speaking English. Boehmer, who was the more talkative of the missionary pair, had been doing most of the answering. But now Jassim was speaking German, shifting responsibility for the bulk of conversation from Boehmer to Davis.

“You two live like you are married, no?” Jassim probed.

Boehmer had explained earlier that he and Davis weren’t permitted to leave each other’s presence, except to use the bathroom. Jassim had expressed great surprise at this. He found it hard to believe and had been mulling it over for some time.

Davis, anxious to steer clear of the cheap shots and gay innuendo that always accompanied such revelations, answered now. “More like roommates,” he clarified.

But Jassim wasn’t going to let them off the hook so easily. “Roommates?” he asked with a smirk. “If you are never apart, do you sleep together also?”

“Nein!” Boehmer and Davis exclaimed in unison.

“But even married people don’t spend every minute together!” Jassim persisted.

With a sigh Elder Davis launched into a lengthy description of the missionary program, willing to risk overstepping the rules regarding Muslims. He wanted to retire the present line of questioning once and for all. Still, he avoided using the terms “conversion” and “baptism.”

Jassim finally appeared willing to accept that Davis and Boehmer were not each other’s lover. But his next question was equally awkward for the pair. “Well, if you’re not lovers,” he said in English, noting that Boehmer squirmed at the use of the term, “and you’re never apart, then how can you see other people?”

Before either Davis or Boehmer could explain their commitment to celibacy they were rescued by the arrival of their lunch. And they were equally thankful when, after the waitress had disappeared, their host didn’t pick up the conversation where he had left off.

But he didn’t quite give them a full reprieve. He continued the interrogation. “So,” he said, still speaking English, “You two have first names, no? Surely your friends and family don’t call you ‘Elder.’” His tone was still pleasant, but Boehmer detected a certain smugness that had begun to irritate him.

Both missionaries began to answer the question, but Davis yielded to Boehmer, who had suddenly grown animated. “Of course we have first names,” he said, his tone betraying his growing annoyance with the Arab. “We’re just not allowed to use them.”

Jassim rolled his eyes. “Allowed?” he asked emphatically. “I thought America was a free country? Why don’t you do as you please?”

There was silence. Davis and Boehmer cast furtive glances at each other, but neither spoke. Davis just sighed and smiled wanly. He would concede this argument. He’d tired of the pointlessness of it. Boehmer, though flushed and agitated, was at a loss for words.

Jassim too remained silent. Gloating, no doubt, thought Boehmer. In truth, Jassim sensed that he had backed the two into a corner and decided to back off. That hadn’t been his intention. He just thought he was having a little fun with them. Apparently they were a bit touchy about the missionary thing.

After thirty seconds that seemed like thirty minutes, Kevin decided he preferred the Arab’s badgering to the silence. The intensity with which Jassim now stared at him only deepened his unease. Reflexively he lowered his gaze under the scrutiny.

It was Jassim who broke the silence. He took a new tack. “If I wish to call you my friend,” he began, “I will need to know your name, no?” Both missionaries drew themselves up as if to answer. Again each looked at the other and hesitated.

Boehmer didn’t want to be this guy’s friend, but it would have been impolitic to say so. Davis, on the other hand, found himself oddly fascinated by him. He wanted to engage the question, yet he couldn’t find the right response.

“Where I am from,” Jassim continued, “it is a sign of disrespect to withhold your name from someone.”

Two years into his mission, the questions Davis usually fielded were predictable. But Jassim’s line of questioning was a new one, and it flummoxed him. He had no perfunctory response

Jassim, on the other hand, excelled in exactly this kind of nuanced philosophical sparring in. He enjoyed it, often spending entire afternoons over coffee engaged in such exchanges with friends and strangers alike. Any worthy opponent.

Were these guys “worthy”? He didn’t think Boehmer was. He was too young. Too insecure. Too impudent. But what about Davis? Jassim focused his intense dark eyes squarely on the redhead, as if he could discern the answer by boring into his mind.

Kevin figured this was meant as a challenge. He was right, of course. But was it hostile or merely playful?

Yet there was something else going on. He struggled to put his finger on just what it was about the impenetrable Arab that commanded his attention. The guy was disconcertingly bold, that much was obvious. There was an implied intimacy in his manner that Kevin was unaccustomed to. The always-circumspect Austrians were never so audacious. Strangers weren’t even this forward back home.

Kevin was, by nature, quiet and introspective. He shied away from confrontation. In most social situations he was more inclined to observe than engage. When necessary, he could play the extrovert. Church experience had taught him how speak in public or teach a Sunday School class. These were nothing more than stage roles, however.

Even at church, Mormons were familiar, but not intimate. Acquaintances who had known each other for years still avoided first names, calling each other “Brother” and “Sister” instead. And you could be sure that at church no one would ask embarrassing personal questions—at least not directly. If they wanted to know something about you they would either beat around the bush or simply go behind your back to get the latest gossip.

So for Kevin one-on-one interaction in which he was forced to ad-lib were difficult. The Arab’s intensity took it up another notch. Even when he was silent his penetrating stare left Kevin feeling naked and exposed. It was like the guy was looking right through him. It was as though all of his faults and inferiorities were laid bare to the mysterious interloper.

More perplexing still was that instead of wanting to turn from the threat, Kevin felt a certain electricity, an excitement. He likened it to the combination of fear and thrill he experienced running the Deschutes River. In a way he felt he was being tested and he wanted to meet the challenge head on.

More disconcerting however was the sense that some part of him wanted to spill his guts to this guy, tell him everything about himself. But he had no idea why a complete stranger should elicit such a response?

Of course, this begged a more fundamental question: who was this Jassim anyway? And what did he want out of this?

It occurred to Kevin that after nearly an hour’s conversation he still knew almost nothing about the guy except that he was Kuwaiti. He had been the one asking all the questions. And Kevin and his companion had answered them. All but one, that is. Now, because they declined to answer a single question the guy was giving them attitude.

Tossing caution aside, Kevin decided to turn the tables. It was time for him put the Kuwaiti on the spot.

“So, ‘Mr. Jassim,’” he said, emphasizing the name, “you don’t know our first names, and we don’t know your last name. I guess that makes us even.” He kept his tone playful; he didn’t want to insult the guy, just put him off balance.

“True,” said Jassim, with a satisfied grin. He was glad to have finally drawn Davis into the game. “Alles gleich,” he interjected in German—all things being even, “I will exchange my last name for your first names.” His self-satisfied expression was that of a poker player who had just gone “all in.”

Kevin knew he’d set himself up for this proposition. He could refuse it, but what did it matter really? Who was this guy going to tell if they broke a little rule? “I guess that’s fair,” he conceded.

Boehmer interjected. “But Elder, mission rules—”

Davis cut him off. “Elder Boehmer,” he said with a wink, “we can hardly be effective in our work here if we don’t learn the names of the elect. It’s a harmless introduction, right?”

Boehmer just shrugged. He wasn’t going to make a scene. It wouldn’t look right for the Lord’s emissaries to be arguing. If it was wrong, the sin would be on Davis’s head, he reasoned. Davis was his senior companion. “OK,” he conceded with a sigh. Offering his hand to Jassim, he said, “Craig.”

“Hello, Craig,” said Jassim, with a mock bow, obviously pleased with himself. He turned back to Davis expectantly.

Just then their meals arrived and momentarily diverted their attentions. Davis knew better than to expect the Kuwaiti to defer the matter at hand. When the waitress had gone, Jassim was still staring at him with a mischievous grin.

Obligingly, Kevin unfastened a shirt button and reached into the wallet that hung about his neck on a string. He withdrew his Oregon driver’s license and extended it toward the Kuwaiti. “Here you go, Mister …?” He dangled the license as one would use a Milk-Bone to get a dog to speak.

“Al Shammari, at your service,” Jassim said with another bow. He took the missionary’s license. He looked at it, then back at Davis. “I am pleased to meet you, Kevin.” His grin was wide, but bore no malice. It was hard not to gloat, however.

Thinking back on this moment later Kevin would conclude that there was something stifling about wearing only a surname—just like the necktie he was required to wear at all times. Hearing his first name for the first time in over a year was soothing, like slipping into an old, comfortable T-shirt.

Had Jassim won? Yeah. Did it matter? No. It was a harmless game. And he was having fun now in spite of himself. As far as the Kuwaiti was concerned, there was no harm in being a bit flexible. Making new friends was, after all, perfectly consistent with his duty as a missionary.

Chapter 6

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14 12:11 PM GUANTÁNAMO BAY

When Sami awoke, he was still on the gurney in the sterile, white operating room. Although he was no longer strapped down, he was too drowsy and muddled to sit up. He had no idea what time it was. He was about to check himself for signs of surgery—or worse—when a firm, but unthreatening voice said, “Stay calm.”

Sami turned his head toward its source. He struggled to focus. But even without clear vision he was able to discern that it was the same bruiser who had given him the injection. “Just lie there and listen,” the man advised him.

As if he had a choice. Just the slight head movement had exhausted him. He assumed that he and the “medic” were alone in the room, but he couldn’t be sure since the privacy curtain around his gurney obstructed his view. He scanned the ceiling for the cameras that were otherwise ubiquitous throughout the camp, but found none.

It was a disquieting observation. The only other place he’d been without cameras was the interrogation cell. For obvious reasons, no documentation was wanted of what went on in there. Did the same apply in here? Was he going to be tortured on the operating table in some kind of grotesque science experiment? Or had they abused him already? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t even know how long he’d been here.

“Now, all you have to do is listen,” the man said. His gentle reassuring tone was incongruous with his physical stature. “It’s just the two of us; no surveillance, no recording.” The man gestured around the room, but Sami was unable to follow. His head throbbed.

“I’m CIA,” the man continued matter-of-factly. “But then you probably knew that.”

Sami gave no indication that the man had presumed correctly. After what he’d been through it would take more than sweet talk and soothing tones to lure him into a casual conversation with the CIA pig.

“Name’s Clarine,” continued the man. He bent over the gurney and put his face close to the prisoner’s. “I’m told your English is pretty good. Is that right?”

The prisoner only stared. Clarine could see his facial muscles tense involuntarily. He was probably anticipating a punch or other punishment for his silence. But Clarine made no threatening gestures. Instead he said, “Look. It’s your ass, not mine here. You talk, we deal. You don’t, you’re back in solitary.” He let this sink in for a moment. “So, are we on or not?”

Sami nodded, though none too vigorously. Only now did he allow himself some small hope that Jeep’s offer to get him out was for real, and that his cooperation here was a step in that direction.

“OK, good,” Clarine said. “But I’m not real good with mime, so I’m going to need some audibles here. OK?” The prisoner cocked his head slightly, a look of uncertainty on his face. “Verbal responses,” Clarine clarified. “You need to speak to me.”

No recording? Sami thought cynically. Yeah, right. You will use my words against me, twisting them into some perversion of the truth as always.

He wanted to ask what had been done to him while he was unconscious, but he had resolved to say as little as possible. Besides, his tongue was still thick and he wasn’t sure he could articulate a full sentence. Instead, he continued looking at the CIA man impassively.

“OK. Here’s the deal,” Clarine went on, as though they were actually having a conversation. “I’m going to make you an offer. I’m going to make it only once. Understand?”

Sami gave a slow nod.

“You agree to do a job for us. As soon as we get what we need, you’re free to walk. But try and screw us, and we’ll nail your ass before you know which way is Mecca. It’s as easy as that.”

In a burst of bitter anger Sami found his voice. “Do you always drug and torture candidates for a job interview?” His contempt had outweighed his caution. The biting sarcasm forced itself out before he could consider the wisdom of such a response. “Or only for White House positions?” he added, bracing for the blow.

“Well, you’re a smart-ass after all,” Clarine said with a satisfied smile. “Glad to hear it. It shows you can think on your feet.” He shot an exaggerated look down the length of the gurney and back before adding: “Well, on your ass anyway.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Sami was puzzled by the man’s collegial tone. A while ago—minutes? hours?—the guy had knocked him unconscious with an injection, then threatened consequences if he didn’t cooperate. Now he was breezily offering frathouse humor.”

As smart as you are,” Clarine went on, “you must know what a mole is, right?”

“A rodent,” Sami said sardonically, his rage morphing into mere contempt.

Clarine actually snickered this time.

“Or a spy,” Sami added. If he was going to engage this guy, he decided, he wouldn’t act the fool for him. Despite the CIA man’s taunts, Sami was intelligent enough to understand the score. He was a doctoral candidate, after all. If it hadn’t been for this military-CIA conspiracy, he’d have had his PhD by now.

“Good,” Clarine confirmed. “Except that a mole spies on his own team instead of the other guy’s.”

Sami nodded. Clarine was patronizing him, but that was preferable to the earlier “interview” techniques he’d endured.

Ignoring the prisoner’s failure to employ the “audibles” he’d requested, Clarine went directly to the gist of the matter. “We need a mole inside al Qaeda,” he said in a more serious tone. “We thought you might be the man for the job.”

Some deal, Sami thought bitterly. The implications were clear enough. These guys still thought that al Qaeda was Sami’s “own team.” He was an American citizen. If they simply asked him to be a spy for the Agency, instead of a mole, it wouldn’t have been so insulting.

It pissed him off that for no other reason than that he was Syrian born, they refused to believe that he was not a terrorist. They were capable of seeing only black or white. You’re either “with us or against us.” Pure as the driven snow, or guilty as Osama bin Laden. These Christian extremists understood only two sides to every issue—their way and the Devil’s. There was no alternative view, no middle ground for them.

Sami had no use for such fundamentalist world views, Islamic or Christian. They were both extremist ideologies that stemmed from a willing ignorance. Neither held room for reason or informed discussion. And both resulted in bloodshed and oppression.

All Sami had wanted when he came to America was an education, a job, and a chance to provide a comfortable life for his family. That was what America was supposed to be all about. It was the “land of freedom.” It once embraced diversity.

But now the country was wrapped in war and nationalism, racism and xenophobia, religious intolerance and theocratic hegemony. If you weren’t “with” America, you must be “against” her. Neutrality and moderation were no longer in the nation’s political dictionary.

Sami’s constitutional rights had been canceled simply because he wasn’t White, Christian, and born on American soil. Their “War on Terror” was a really a war against Muslims. Innocence and guilt were no factors.

So what if his field of study equipped him to build biological weapons using anthrax and ricin? Mere academic learning did not imply intent. They weren’t running around dragging people of other religious backgrounds to Cuba and torturing them just because they had studied microbiology. There were also plenty of Americans with the same knowledge Sami had.

No one seemed to remember that America’s most deadly terrorist event prior to 9-11was also perpetrated by an American, a self-described patriot named Timothy McVeigh. Yet even he got a trial before he was executed.

Despite the CIA’s assumption, Sami knew he was no more qualified to infiltrate the al Qaeda network than he was to break into CIA headquarters in McClean, Virginia. But to argue this now with Clarine would be pointless. Even if the guy probably didn’t beat him for resisting, the CIA man wasn’t going to sit and listen to his prisoner complain that he was being treated unfairly.

Besides, Sami understood that his captors’ misconceptions benefitted him now. The CIA’s belief that he had the connections they needed to successfully infiltrate al Qaeda would be his ticket out of here. Hence, this quid-pro-quo offer. Let them go on believing then, if it gave him the leverage he needed to get out of here.

“I will listen,” Sami answered at length. It was a noncommittal response, but he knew it was what the CIA wanted to hear.

“Good,” said Clarine, with a smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He spoke with a parental condescension, despite the fact that the two of them were both in their twenties.

Sami listened skeptically to the CIA proposal. The plan, according to Clarine, was to get Sami into an al Qaeda training camp, wearing some kind of GPS device that could lead the US military to the location.

It would clearly be a suicide mission for Sami. If al Qaeda discovered the deception, justice would be swift. It would involve no threats, no warnings, and no bargains. Sami’s only appeal would be to Allah as the life left his body. In a culture where even the faithful offered their lives freely for the cause, the life of the infidel was worth less than the bullet needed to take it.

And even if his infiltration were successful, the US would either bomb the place or a Delta Force would storm the camp with him in it. Either way, he’d still end up dead. What did the CIA care? He meant nothing to them once they attained their objective. He was entirely expendable. A mere chess piece. As they say, no honor among thieves.

Still, he had to wonder whether it was worse to rot away in this tropical hell forever, or submit to the devices of al Qaeda. If death was imminent, action was always preferable to inaction, wasn’t it? Die trying, or something like that.

Besides no matter how ill-fated this plan appeared, it would get him off the island. Maybe he could find a way to see his wife and kids again before he died. Surely the CIA wasn’t as omnipotent and omnipresent as it wanted you to believe. Maybe Sami could enlist the right help to outsmart them and gain true freedom.

Clarine’s next statement let Sami know that the CIA had beaten him to this line of reasoning. “In exchange for your cooperation,” his captor said with a smile more threatening than sincere, “we will make sure your family stays safe.” Sami shot Clarine a murderous look. The quid pro quo of it was clear. His family would be held hostage to his performance.

In spite of the shackles still hobbling his wrists and ankles, Sami lunged at Clarine. All he could manage to deliver however was a badly aimed body block. Clarine easily dodged the move and the prisoner crashed to the floor at his feet. Pain shot through Sami’s shoulder as it slammed into the concrete floor.

Using women and children in this way was beneath even the CIA, or so Sami had thought. It was certainly un-American. Not even al Qaeda took women hostage. Why was the CIA stooping to something so dishonorable?

Sami couldn’t imagine that the Agency would actually harm his wife and kids if he resisted, but he could imagine them being stripped of their citizenship and deported to Syria. That was just as bad. In Syria anyone could be tortured if it pleased the government.

“Easy now,” Clarine was saying in that paternal voice as he reached a hand to help his prisoner up. Sami refused the offer, struggling to his feet unaided.

“You won’t help yourself or your family by acting rashly,” Clarine continued. “We’re not going to hurt them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It was uncanny the way the guy could read his mind. Sami wondered suddenly if he was playing into the CIA’s hands by reacting as he had. Clarine seemed to know exactly what would happen, as though it had been scripted and Sami were simply acting out an assigned role.

Either way, he knew Clarine was right. The only hope Sami had of improving his situation—and his family’s—would be through cooperation with the CIA, as galling as that was to admit. He’d have to go along at least until another opportunity presented itself. And that wouldn’t happen here at Gitmo.

It was the Devil’s deal, but one he’d be a fool not to accept. Sami forced a neutral expression and worked to keep his voice from quavering with anger as he said, “I will cooperate.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I do so, not for my life, nor for your cause, but for my family."

Chapter 7

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14 8:00 PM VIENNA

Five hours after they had said their goodbyes outside Café Kafka, Kevin couldn’t stop thinking about Jassim al Shammari. The Kuwaiti had given them his phone number and asked them to come visit sometime.

What was it about the Kuwaiti that bothered him? He couldn’t put his finger on anything specific the guy had said or done. Instead, it was something in his own reaction to Jassim that Kevin found disquieting. Something he didn’t understand.

Whether because of this or in spite of it, he agreed with Boehmer that a follow-up visit with al Shammari wasn’t a good idea. At best it would have been pointless. Muslims didn’t convert. Davis and Boehmer would list Jassim as a “contact made” in their weekly status report and leave it at that. A circled M—for Muslim—by the Kuwaiti’s name would signal to future missionaries that no further contact should be attempted.

But no sooner had the missionaries agreed to that decision than Kevin found himself second-guessing it. Part of him wanted to give al Shammari a chance, while another part of him was afraid. But of what? he kept asking himself.

Was he being unfair to Jassim for selfish reasons? After all, didn’t everyone deserve a fair shake when it came to salvation? Or was he justified because proselytizing Muslims was against the rules? Well, OK. Not against the rules exactly; it just required permission. And hadn’t Jassim invited them to come by?

After reprunning this dialog in his head for several hours, Kevin ultimately decided they owed the guy the courtesy of at least one visit, even though he rather doubted the Kuwaiti was interested in their Gospel message. But at least this way the decision would be in al Shammari’s hands rather than theirs. That’s the way it should be anyway, right?

But they still had to get permission, a process that would normally involve the district leader, the zone leader, and so on, up the well-defined mission chain of command. Missionaries were supposed to call the mission home directly only in case of emergency.

Yet going that route could take a week or more. Kevin only had two weeks until he left for home. And once he was gone his replacement wasn’t likely to follow up with al Shammari, especially since Boehmer had taken a disliking to the Kuwaiti.

If Kevin expected to see Jassim again he’d have to call the Mission Home.

Elder Davis waited until his companion got in the shower before making his call. It would be difficult enough to make his case without Boehmer whining or adding his two cents to the conversation.

It was just after eight o’clock. Though the mission office was technically closed at this hour, the clerk and secretary had a basement apartment in the Mission Home. If they were in, someone would answer.

“Mission Wien. Guten Abend. Hier spricht Elder Nielsen.”

“Hey, Nielsen.” Davis didn’t have to identify himself.

“Duuude!” Nielsen enthused, ignoring protocol. Elder was the preferred term. “I haven’t talked to you in forever! Was gibt’s?”

Danny Nielsen was a glass-half-full type. Perennially positive. Always upbeat. His perkiness annoyed some, but it was one of the things that Davis liked about him. The guy reminded him of a dog with his head out the window of a speeding car. Genuinely happy. He couldn’t be unpleasant if he tried. No wonder they had him answering phones.

Davis and Nielsen had become instant friends the day they met. The first night of their three-month companionship in Salzburg, long after the lights were out and obedient missionaries elsewhere were undoubtedly asleep, Davis and Nielsen lay awake into the wee hours lost in conversation. They later referred to this, tongue in cheek, as “male-bonding.”

Although “love your companion” was one of the mission maxims, not all companionships functioned smoothly. Human nature had a way of intruding on the best of intentions. Some personalities attracted and others repelled. Davis and Nielsen were among the former.

Kevin was glad Danny answered. It would make his unorthodox request easier. He got straight to the point. “Listen, Danny. I need a favor.”

“Sure, dude. If I can.”

Is the prez in town?”

“Uh, yeah. But it’s after eight. Is it an emergency?”

“No, no,” Kevin assured him. “I don’t need to talk to him. I just need approval.”

“Don’t we all,” said Nielsen

Kevin laughed. “Cute.” He could always count on Nielsen’s quick wit. “Listen,” he continued, “I need permission to teach a Muslim.” He suddenly realized how terribly nonurgent the request sounded. It didn’t really merit an afterhours call.

Still, it apparently impressed Nielsen. He gave a long whistle. “Wow. Don’t get many requests like that. Was this in your field report?”

“No,” Davis admitted, aware that written requests were the standard protocol for such requests. “It’s kind of a last-minute thing,” he explained.

“So, is this a member referral?”Mormons were always encouraged to share their testimony of the Gospel with anyone who was receptive. Most exceptions to the Muslim rule therefore involved a friend or relative of a church member.

“No. We just met the guy today.”

“Like, how? Did he just walk up to you on the street and say, ‘Hi. Tell me about your church?’”

“Well, actually…” Davis began.

“Get out of here!” Nielsen was incredulous. “You mean he did?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Dude, that just doesn’t happen! Those guys hate us.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So, give me some details,” Nielsen said with far too much enthusiasm.

Kevin had hoped to gloss over the facts of the meeting. That clearly wasn’t going to be possible. He knew better than to try to put Nielsen off. “We were storyboarding on Maria—the usual spot,” he obliged, “and this Arab showed up and just stood there looking at the boards for several minutes.”

“You didn’t actively—” Nielsen began. Davis cut him off.

“No, no. I know the rules. I just walked up to him and said hi. I mean, it got kind of awkward to keep pretending he wasn’t there. Once he made eye contact I really didn’t have a choice.”

“So, what did he say?”

“He just introduced himself,” Davis said. “And then he invited us to lunch.”

“Dude. That’s weird,” said Nielsen.

“Tell me about it. But he came back a couple hours later when we were striking the display and took us to a beisl down on Gumpendorfer.”

“You could have politely declined,” Nielsen suggested.

“Yeah, I know,” Davis agreed. “We were going to, but… well, I don’t know what happened.” He was anxious to get the conversation moving. “Anyway, the guy’s going back to Kuwait in a week, so I need an answer soon.” It was a calculated lie. Kevin was rather shocked to hear himself tell it. He hadn’t rehearsed it.

Even little white lies were out of character for him. Back in high school his best friend Anna had accused him of having a “best little boy in the world” complex. “You couldn’t lie to save your life,” she had teased.

“Oh yeah?” he had replied indignantly, “Well, you’re ugly!”

“Sorry. Not convincing,” Anna had sighed, shaking her head.

She was right, of course. He wasn’t a convincing liar. Never had been. His guilt reflex was so twitchy that his face always gave him away.

He was glad Nielsen couldn’t see his face right now.

He didn’t even know why he was lying. But now that he had started down this path, he had to continue. “He wants us to come by tomorrow,” he said, embellishing the story.

Whoa,” Nielsen said. “That’s going to be pretty tough. The prez is leaving in the morning for a zone conference in Salzburg. He won’t be back ‘til Sunday evening. Why don’t you just put the request in your field—”

“Look, Danny,” Davis said, “I really need this favor.”

“Well, I’m not going to bother the prez tonight.” Nielsen sounded wounded. Kevin regretted snapping at him.

“No, no. I didn’t expect you to. Tomorrow would be fine.”

“Alright. I’ll run it by him first thing in the morning.” Nielsen was more businesslike now.

“Thanks, Danny. I really appreciate it.”

“Sorenson will want some background on the guy. What else can I tell him?”

“He’s Kuwaiti. And he’s a student at the Technische,” he said, referring to Vienna’s Technical University. “Early twenties, probably.”

“Single? Married? Kids?”

“Uh, married. But his wife is back in Kuwait. He has a young daughter.”

“So, he’s just here temporarily?”

“I don’t really know,” Davis confessed.

“OK. Good enough. I’ll run it by the prez.”

“Thanks again, Danny. I owe you one.”

“No problem, Red.” Danny’s tone had warmed again and Kevin was grateful.

Kevin had his own doubts about whether al Shammari’s invitation was sincere. Their encounter today might have just been an afternoon amusement for him. He had explained to the Kuwaiti that purely social visits were outside the scope of their missionary work. Jassim assured them that they could bring their books and tell him more about their “American religion.”

But Kevin remained skeptical. Was it a challenge or an invitation? Something told him that al Shammari’s interests were not spiritual in nature. Still, he felt compelled to follow up.

The phone rang twice. “Hallo. Hier spricht Jassim.”

“Uh, hi. This is Elder Davis.”

“Hey, Red!” Jassim said with enthusiasm. Kevin hadn’t told him his nickname. He had gleaned it from a snapshot in Kevin’s wallet. The photo bore the inscription, “To Red, with love. Anna.” Jassim wanted to know all about Anna, but Kevin had demurred.

From that point onward Jassim had called hiim Red, in spite of his protests. Not only was it against mission rules; it was far too intimate on the lips of a guy he knew so little about. It felt like a violation of personal space. Only Kevin’s closest friends had ever called him by his nickname. Not even his family used it.

“Did you still want us to come by for a visit?” Kevin chose his words carefully. Despite having the president’s permission, he was still treading softly around the issue of preaching religion. Something still nagged at him. He wanted to leave himself an out if things got uncomfortable.

“Klar!” said Jassim enthusiastically.

“OK. When’s good for you?”

Chapter 8

THURSDAY, APRIL 15 . 5:30 AM . GUANTÁNAMO BAY

No sooner had Sami fallen into his usual fitful sleep, than Jeep was at his bedside waking him. It took him a moment to realize that he was no longer shackled. His nightmares of torture were often so real he had a hard time separating dreams from actual memories.

He stretched. It felt good. There was just a hint of soreness between his shoulder blades.

He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He assumed the chaplain was here for the Morning Prayer. “Fajr?” he asked.

“Almost. But we haven’t got time,” Jeep said tersely. His earlier nonchalance had vanished. He was rushed and nervous. “You’ve got a plane to catch. Clarine will be here any minute.”

Before Sami could formulate any questions, Jeep produced a Quran. “Here’s the parting gift I promised.”

Sami was confused. He remembered no such promise. Had the chaplain made it yesterday when Sami had still been groggy from the injection? That was yesterday, wasn’t it?

Jeep all but shoved the sacred book into his hands. Sami noticed it was in Arabic.

“I’ve marked a few passages that I think you’ll find helpful. You should take a few minutes to consider them when you get to your destination.” Jeep’s speech seemed stilted, rehearsed.

“Do you understand?” The question, which this time was in Arabic, was not merely rhetorical. The chaplain had fixed his gaze on Sami, awaiting an answer.

Sami suspected that the subtle look in Jeep’s eye, together with his use of Arabic, signified something. He wasn’t sure what, but it was almost certainly meant to slip by surveillance. Jeep’s back was to the camera.

Taking his cue from the chaplain, Sami asked no questions, but nodded his acknowledgment. Only then did Jeep release his visual grip.

Before either of them could speak again, the door opened and Clarine entered the cell. Sami noticed an immediate change in Jeep’s demeanor. The chaplain’s face went blank and his whole body stiffened, even though the CIA man held no rank over him.

“You’re up early, Captain Mayes,” Clarine said, shooting Jeep a somewhat quizzical look. “Everything all right?”

“Yessir.” The chaplain had a hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression, but quickly shrugged it off and smiled unconvincingly. “I just wanted to give the prisoner his Quran before he left.”

Sami sensed a strain between the two men. It was a fleeting impression, but it was enough to suggest that they weren’t acting entirely in concert in whatever was going on here. Was Jeep aware of the CIA mission Sami had been given? Was Clarine aware of Jeep’s promise to get Sami out of the camp? Were these the selfsame plan or somehow at odds?

Recalling the note inserted in the English-language Quran the chaplain had carried two days ago, Sami wondered whether there was also a message in the book Jeep had just given him.

“Captain Mayes,” the CIA officer said bluntly, “it would be best if you left.”

Jeep shrugged. “Yessir.” He turned to Jabarrah and said, in Arabic, “Study the Quran. In it you will find true freedom.” Then, in English, he added, “Allah be with you. Salaam,” and was gone.

Chapter 9

THURSDAY, APRIL 15 . 2:38 PM . VIENNA

It was a ten-minute walk from Davis and Boehmer’s Webgasse apartment in the Sixth District to al Shammari’s in the Seventh. Neither had high hopes for the outcome of their visit.

They were encouraged to share their message only with the “pure in heart”—those most likely to accept baptism. In practice, most missionaries eagerly taught anyone willing to sit and listen for twenty minutes. This had the advantage of boosting their numbers in the weekly report, though it didn’t result in more conversions.

It also increased their chance of rejection. And no matter how many times they experienced it, rejection wasn’t easy. Often it was awkward, devolving into arguments or hurt feelings.

When they reached the Naschmarkt, Boehmer stopped outside a public restroom. “Hey, I gotta use the WC,” he said. “We got time, right?”

“Only a couple of minutes, so don’t screw around. I don’t want to be late.” Davis said, letting his irritation show. They were just three blocks from Jassim’s place. Why hadn’t Boehmer gone back at the apartment?

“Just chill, Elder. I’ll only be a minute.” Boehmer said, ducking into the restroom.

Davis had been psyching himself up for the meeting with Jassim. This interruption would give him to time to second guess himself, messing with his resolve.

He and Boehmer had debated at length how they should handle the Kuwaiti. With most “investigators,” as their prospects were known, they would sit down and teach the first in a series of memorized lessons designed to lead their contact toward baptism.

But they both knew al Shammari was an unlikely candidate for conversion. He’d been coy about the depth of his interest in their Gospel message. And neither of them knew of anyone who’d baptized a Muslim before.

Boehmer thought they should just give the Kuwaiti their usual spiel and go. Leave the rest in God’s hands. Davis thought maybe it would be better to just make it a social visit—get to know the guy and see where it went from there. They never reached any consensus. But as senior companion Kevin would have to make the ultimate decision. He would be leading the discussion.

It was typical to be a bit nervous on any first visit, but he sensed that his uneasiness now—as it had all along—came from something else. Something subliminal. He considered the possibility that it was an ethnic bias.

Kevin wasn’t specifically prejudiced towards Arabs. At least not like some of the other missionaries he knew, some of whom professed a hatred—“righteous anger” they called it—of all Muslims, as if that justified their uncharitable feelings. Nor was Kevin afraid, like so many Americans, as though every Arab were a suicide bomber.

As far as Kevin knew, Jassim was the first Arab he had ever spoken to. The guy had been pleasant and unthreatening. There was no obvious reason for Kevin to be nervous. Yet he was.

When Boehmer emerged from the restroom, the pair crossed the Rechte Wienzeile and walked two more blocks and turned into Faulmanngasse. One block later they were outside Jassim’s building.

Davis took a deep breath and rang the bell for apartment 2.

A moment later the door buzzed and the missionaries entered the cool, dimly lit foyer of the century-old building. Jassim’s apartment was on the top floor. He had recommended taking the stairs because the very old, very slow elevator was often unreliable.

Davis and Boehmer ascended the stairs two at a time. When they reached the top landing and turned into the hallway they were already at Jassim’s open door, where he waited for them. “Hello, my friends.” There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he was anything but genuinely happy to see them.

Davis reached to shake al Shammari’s hand, but when the Kuwaiti started to hug him instead, the two hovered for an awkward second before their hands finally clasped. Kevin was surprised when their host helped him out of his jacket. He was not used to such formality. Boehmer declined a similar gesture and chose to remain in his jacket.

Al Shammari’s apartment was spacious by Viennese standards, easily twice the size of the tiny one-roomer Davis and Boehmer shared. Jassim waved them both to the sofa in the living room. He indicated that they should help themselves to a spread of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table before them.

The missionaries were unaccustomed to such elaborate hospitality. They hesitated. “Wow,” Boehmer said. “This really wasn’t necessary, Mr. Shammari. We usu—”

“Mister Shammari?” Jassim interrupted, taking exaggerated offense. “Do I look like anyone’s daddy? How old do you think I am?” His eyes were wide in mock shock; a smile played at the corners of his lips.

Boehmer was thrown off balance. “I, uh… I’m really sorry. I…,” he stammered.

“How old are you, Craig?” Jassim was still standing, hands clasped behind his back in the manner of a teacher lecturing his students.

Boehmer stiffened at the use of his first name. Even though he himself had given it to the Kuwaiti, he probably hadn’t expected him to use it. But he seemed willing to let it go. “Nineteen.”

“And I am only four years older,” al Shammari said smugly. “ That’s not enough for you to call me ‘mister.’” He turned to Davis, “And you, Kevin? You are also about my age, no?”

“Twenty-one,” Davis said.

“Close enough,” the Kuwaiti declared. “You’ll both call me Jassim, ja?”

“Sure,” Kevin said, no longer bothered by the use of first names. Why fight it? Jassim would clearly do as he pleased. In a way, Kevin found he admired Jassim’s confidence and take-charge attitude. It was a refreshing change from the polite, but ultimately austere, Austrian decorum. He wished he himself could be that bold and direct with people.

“Good,” said Jassim. He flashed them a winning smile. “Now, would you like white wine or red?” he asked, nodding toward the neglected spread on the coffee table.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Again Davis and Boehmer looked at each other. Most people knew Mormons didn’t drink. Yet neither did Muslims, right? Was this another test?

Opting to avoid the issue of religious proscriptions, Davis took the easy way out. “Neither, thanks. Water would be great.”

“I insist,” Jassim said firmly. “I always treat my guests well.”

Boehmer engaged the standard reply this time. “It’s against our religion,” he blurted. The “Word of Wisdom” forbidding alcohol and tobacco was a binding rule upon all Mormons who wished to remain in good standing.

“Ah, I see. Like the rule about first names, is it?” Jassim’s response was calm and measured, without rancor, though Kevin detected in it a subtle mockery. Before either American could answer, Jassim reached for the bottle of red wine. “Well, meine Jungen—we can break one more rule, ja?” He began to fill a glass.

“Sorry,” Kevin said with a smile. “This one’s not negotiable.”

“Everyth